


The Years of John Doe

by story_telling_sage



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, GANG RELATED VIOLENCE, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knife Violence, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slit Throat, Underage Smoking Mention, underage drinking mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11651823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_telling_sage/pseuds/story_telling_sage
Summary: Mary Hatford dies not in California, but along the Canadian border, sending Nathaniel nameless and running scared. Call it luck, call it a twist of fate, call it whatever you want, but Nathaniel tumbles onto the streets of Detroit and right into the hands of one Natalie Shields. Ash covered, burnt and bloody, and completely alone, Nathaniel finds himself becoming someone new with the help of this raven-haired girl he should know not to trust.Going by John Doe, he's mute and ruthless and a member of the Detroit Bloodhounds. Natalie and John fight and they lie and they attempt to face their own demons. They find unexpected allies in each other and John finds that he's breaking the promises he made his mother left and right. The only question is, will it be worth it? John doesn't know, and he isn't even sure if he'll live long enough to find out.Part of the All For The Game Big Bang with accompanying art by lio-zehel. See first chapter for a link.





	1. Author's Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my submission for the All For The Game Big Bang! The first chapter is the author's notes so feel free to skip to chapter two for the Epilogue and subsequent beginning of the fic. The art by lio-zehel and an accomanying playlist is linked below along with my undying gratitude to several special people.

In which, I have never finished something this big before. This story started on the back of crumpled receipt paper in the middle of a slow shift. It was months before I had even heard of the Big Bang, and it was months after I had signed up that I found the aforementioned receipt paper crumpled under my bed and finally, finally, committed to this idea.

Throughout work shifts, some of the most boring personal finance classes I’ve ever had to sit through, and quite a lot of coffee and forcing myself to sit down and write until my fingers hurt, I bring you, John and Natalie. These little shits have woken me up at midnight with sudden inspiration, caused my google search history to look hella suspicious, and have greatly influenced my music taste to angsty pop punk for the duration of my writing period.

I love these characters, who belong fully to Nora, but I love the people who’ve supported me through this writing process even more.

My first shoutout goes to my wife, last-minute beta, and best friend, Kat ([reytrashqueen](http://reytrashqueen.tumblr.com)). She is a gift and I love her.

The next shoutout has to go to Krishna ([yalocalesbian](http://yalocalesbian.tumblr.com)) and Maddy ([polyhymina](http://polyhymina.tumblr.com)) who, along with Kat, have been single handedly (or multi handedly, I suppose) for getting me to actually sit down and write via yelling at me a lot and being a fantastic support network. Who else could I turn to while trying to figure out what gangs do? It turns out, none of us know, and I still don’t. But they still let me yell a lot, for which I’m eternally grateful.

Krishna's edit for [Love, Loved, Lover(s)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11629125) can be found [here](http://aftgbigbang.tumblr.com/post/163521600442/yalocalesbian-my-edit-for-the-fic-love) and you should all check out Maddy's Renison mythology AU (ft. Andrew Minyard as a talking bull) on August 3rd. 

Another shoutout to the always amazing, and seriously gay, tfcfamslashnet. This fic might be completely gen, but I’m in love Ace and Elena with all my wlw loving heart and their support means the world. 

And of course, my Big Bang would not be complete without the absolutely fantastic art done by lio-zehel. It can be found [here](http://lio-zehel.tumblr.com/post/163643919530/it-started-on-the-streets-of-detroit-it-started) and you should all go check it out because (as I’m eloquently going to put it) it’s some of the best art to ever be made actually ever??? It’s a scene from the epilogue, so whether you see their art first or read the epilogue first it doesn’t matter but please go see their art and give it lots of love!

And, of course, last but not least, are the amazing mods of the AFTG Big Bang. Thank you for organizing this and giving us a place to share these amazing stories and art pieces.

Please read the tags and heed the warnings. I love having people read my fics, but I love having my readers take care of themselves even more. Each chapter with come with their own warning in the author's notes, so keep an eye out for those too if you're worried about being triggered.

For those of you who like music check out my 'The Years of John Doe' writing playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/gail.salty/playlist/2VGo6rpSDT8uwB0rX4WM7x) on spotify! If you enjoy the story you can always check out my [ya lit blog](http://wylcnvcnsunshine.tumblr.com) and search the tag [Years of John Doe](http://wylcnvcnsunshine.tumblr.com/tagged/years-of-john-doe) to see other creations or updates on a possible sequel. Please feel free to always come talk to me about my fics or the Foxes in general!

I guess I should let you get to the fic now, huh? Good luck, have fun, and don’t hate me too much for what I put my kids through! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	2. falling like ashes to the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It started on the streets of Detroit. 
> 
> It started with a boy and a girl and blood.
> 
> It started like everything else did: with a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of violence
> 
> Title from Believer by Imagine Dragons

It started on the streets of Detroit. 

It started with a boy and a girl and blood.

It started like everything else did: with a fight. 

Natalie Shields caught sight of him in that time right before sunrise and before most of the world is awake when bad decisions are made. He’s soot stained and short with bags under his eyes so deep they look permanent. He’s harmless, maybe. But, then again, no one out at this hour really is. Not in this town. So Natalie pulls a knife and feels a smile pulling at her lips, a dare. The boy catches sight of her knife, then her eyes, and she can see his fight or flight instinct wage a small war inside of his head. 

He’s just reckless enough to accept the dare and just desperate enough to make it a challenge. It’s a bloody fight. (So much of both their lives have been covered in blood, it’s really only fitting that this is how they meet.) His fists land solid blows and Natalie can tell he’s been trained. He aims for where it hurt, where she knows she could fall, and it makes her want to laugh. Her knives land true, just like they always do, and the fight ends with him on the ground and Natalie can’t help but think that this is where he belongs. 

The boy - he’ll go by many names in Natalie’s lifetime, but this will always be the first: the boy, prey, goner - fought too wild to land any blow that could be lasting, too weak from sleep deprivation, malnourishment, and everything else a life on the streets will do to you. He’s laying on concrete, struggling to sit up with Natalie’s knee pressed down on his chest, coughing up blood. 

He doesn’t say anything, not a single word, just smiles and laughs and laughs and laughs. Natalie lets herself grin, licking the coppery tang of blood from her lips, and offers him a hand. Anyone who will even try to match her blow for blow, let alone land some solid hits, is someone who deserved a seat at the table. Any maybe even back then, Natalie had a place in her heart for lost causes. 

And this boy was so, undeniably lost. Natalie took him to her “home” away from “home” and introduced him to Michael. Michael had taken control of The Bloodhounds ten months ago and kept his control with an iron fist. He took one look at the kid and wrote him off as a lost cause until he learned some of the blood on Natalie wasn’t his. Then Michael looked at him again with a new pair of eyes. 

“He’ll be your pet, Shields,” Michael says before turning to the new boy. “What about you? Got a name, shortie?” If he had a name, he didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything. The boy was still grinning, still bloody, and didn’t even flinch when Michael landed a blow to his stomach for the silence. He didn’t cry, yelp, or scream as the hits kept coming. He never said a word.

“Stupid as shit, you sure you want him?” Michael said when he was finished. Natalie eyed the boy appreciatively. He might not know when to speak up, but he could take the hits. That was important. That was worth it. A decisive nod was all it took to call Michael off. “All yours then,” he said before walking off, cleaning blood from under his nails. 

“Want me to call you anything?” Natalie asked, grabbing the boy from off the bloody asphalt for the second time that day. His flat stare was an obvious “no” and Natalie didn’t mind. She just nodded. “Okay then, John Doe.” When he didn’t balk from the name Natalie let it stick. It seemed fitting for this homeless, nameless runway in more ways than one. 

It started in a run down warehouse, filled with junkies and other lost kids who said yes when they should have said no.

It started in another broken house years and miles from this place. 

It started like this: a smile playing across the boy’s face at the 23rd name he’s received in a long line of names. In his years of perpetual transformation, these would be the years of John Doe. 


	3. the fire's out but still it burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Nathan Wesninski, knife violence, gun violence, implied referenced torture, slit throat. For more explicit warnings check the bottom notes.
> 
> Title from Flares by The Script.

John sat on the cot, smoke curling up from the cigarette in his hand. He held tight to the cigarette to try and keep his hands from obviously shaking and took a deep breath. 

Second hand smoke could kill you. John Doe would kill himself faster than disease ever could. 

It had been almost two weeks. Two entire fucking weeks. And Mary was still dead. She was still dead and  ~~Nathaniel Alex Stephan Chris~~ John Doe was still breathing, the smoke from her burning body filling his head and making everything go fuzzy. Or maybe it was the hunger. Or the pain. John couldn’t tell anymore. Natalie had taken one look at his injuries from his run in with Michael and the bandages that had graced his skin before and told him to stay put. John wasn’t in much a mood to do anything, let alone be defiant, so he stayed. 

He saw her crow black hair before he heard her footsteps as she approached with a first aid kit in tow. 

“Loose the shirt if you have interest in not dying from infection,” she told him bluntly, sitting down across from him and opening the kit. Part of John balked at the idea, at the exposure, but it had been days since he’d checked the burns racing up his arms and the likelihood of infection setting in was getting to be on the worrying side of probable. 

Then again, it wasn’t like he had anything left to lose. He shed his worn jacket before peeling off his even grimier shirt, exposing long length of dirty bandages and scarred skin. If Natalie was startled by his collection she didn’t show it, just started unwinding bandages with a rough hand. There were the fresh lines of torn flesh from his knife fight with Natalie and the split skin from Michael’s lesson in obedience but those injuries paled in comparison from the souvenirs he earned from his last encounter with his father and his men.

Even thinking about the “accident” left  ~~Nathaniel Alex Stephan Chris~~ John short of breath ( _ he was always short of breath, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, mom-) _ and shaking. 

 

**Ontario, Canada - 2002**

 

The air was cold that night as they attempted to flee Ontario. The winter sent ice through their veins in the north, even more so late at night when they made their run. They hadn’t even had an inkling that anything was off, that the Butcher was so close to finding them, until Mary had spotted Jackson Plank sniffing around town. Nathan’s right hand man sent them scrambling. 

After all, that had been the plan, because they ran right into Nathan’s trap. 

Nathaniel grew up at the feet of his father, knowing all too well that the line between the Baltimore legend and the man was nothing but a small, split hair. There was nothing Nathan wouldn’t do that the Butcher wasn’t already rumored to have accomplished. The only thing accredited to him that he hadn’t yet earned was the death of his wife and son and he intended to correct that. 

Nathaniel knew this truth like he knew his own heartbeat as he cowered behind his mother. Nathan was standing before them and there would be no surviving. Lola was at his shoulder, her grin as wicked at Nathaniel had remembered it but his focus didn’t stay on her for long. No, his mother’s screams were much harder to ignore. 

Nathan wasn’t an artist like Lola claimed to be, he was harsh hacks and packing as much pain behind a blow as he could. 

“My wife,” he had snarled, the words twisted and ugly in his mouth. “And my son. My greatest disappointments. I’m going to tear you apart piece by piece, limb by limb. I won’t let you make a liar of me again, Mary.” And he didn’t. It would be a miracle if they survived the hour, an act of an absent god if they survived the night. 

Lola held Nathaniel back, handcuffs cutting into his wrists and a knife perched precariously against his neck as Mary screamed and screamed and screamed. It started with a beating and escalated to his butcher's knife faster than Nathaniel could follow. Or maybe the surrealness of his father standing before them was making time go wrong. 

“Keep her still, Jackson,” Nathan ordered before beckoning to Lola to drag Nathaniel forward. He was 13, barely a scrap of a boy with nothing to his name but a collection of scars and murderous rage. He didn’t stand a chance, but even so, he was a Wesninski and a Hatford. He wouldn’t die easy.

He wouldn’t die that night at all. Nathan was too busy savoring the touch of his blade against his own flesh and blood son to realize Mary had gotten free. It wasn’t until bullets rang out in the air and Jackson cried out in pain and outrage that Nathan let his son drop to the floor. 

Lola was quick to pick Nathaniel up from the ground again just as Mary shoved a gun to Nathan’s chest. There was half a beat of uneasy silence, the two women eyeing each other down like a protective mother bear and a feral coyote who met on the battlefield. It felt like forever but it was only a second before they made their moves to end it all. Just as the sound of a bullet firing hit the air so did Nathaniel’s garbled cries. 

From there it was a blur, a painful blur as Nathaniel couldn’t focus on anything but trying to stop the blood pouring from his throat. Later, he’d remember it in flashes. 

His mother screaming. 

_ Fear. Fear. Fear. _

Lola laughing.

_ Make it stop, please mom, make it stop. _

Nathan hitting the ground. 

_ Pain. Pain. Pain.  _

He didn’t register when his mother pressed a cloth to his throat and held it there, his entire body was on fire. He didn’t register when he was picked up, carried out, and put in the car as Mary broke every speed limit there was to get them somewhere safe fast enough to keep her son alive. Nathaniel didn’t register when Mary broke into a vet’s office and laid him out on the cold steel table. All he registered was the pain, the blood running through his fingers, gushing out of his body like an unwanted disease. All he registered was the pain and then blissful darkness.

He woke in the back of a car, still in pain but still breathing. He started to open his mouth, started to say something, but pain ran through him until he couldn't do anything but curl in on himself tighter. 

“Nathaniel,” Mary said. Her voice was cool and commanding as always. It was almost a comfort, the inability for this to change. Nathaniel uncurled himself, just barely, and tried to meet his mother’s eyes. Her eyes were green, colored contacts making her eyes water, and her hair hung in dark brown sheets. Nathaniel tried to remember every inch of her. This felt like an end.

It was not gentle. It was not soft like summer light. It was not going softly into that night. Nothing about Mary Hatford was soft and her death would not be either. Mary dragged promise after promise out of Nathaniel’s lips. 

“You keep running,” Mary snarled. “You do not stop.” Nathaniel nodded. Terror was written out in the stark lines of Nathaniel’s face as Mary kept talking.  _ Never be anyone who too long and never, ever, be yourself. You do not stop. Not for anything. You keep running, Nathaniel. You keep running. YOU PROMISE ME THAT! _

And Nathaniel nodded. He promised over and over again until the car stopped near the edge of a Canadian forest and Mary’s breathing stopped with it. 

_ Mom?  _ Nathaniel wanted to ask but he had no words and Mary had no response for him. 

_ Mom?!?  _ he wanted to shout but he couldn’t even open his mouth without feeling the pull of stitches that made tears well up in his eyes. 

_ Mom?!  _ he needed to ask, needed to hear her respond, needed her help. 

_ Mom?  _ he couldn’t say. Mary was dead and his voice was gone. He knew there were things he needed to do. He needed to access their bank account, contact a new id maker, burn her body and bury her, he needed to keep running. But Nathaniel was too tired and his mother’s body was too cold. Everything was too cold. 

_ Mom, _ he tried to say, but all that came out was tears.

 

\--

 

~~Nathaniel Alex Stephan Chris~~ John took a deep breath and instead tried to focus on Natalie’s hands on him. She left the bandages on his neck alone for now, instead focusing on his arms and rib bindings. 

“The fuck happened to you?” she asked but her posture said she obviously wasn’t expecting an answer. It was more of a statement than anything, like Nathaniel needed a reminder of how messed up he was.

He tried to mentally list every injury and their cause like he had over the past two weeks in a vain attempt to keep himself sane. He kept track as Natalie tended to them and cataloged the new ones that were worth noting.

Two broken ribs, two cracked - Nathan

One broken rib, half healed - Mary

Split lip - Michael

Black eye - Michael

Gash, right shoulder blade - Nathan

Six cuts, three to each forearm - Lola

Mirade of bruises - Nathan, Mary, Michael, Natalie

Gash, shallow, stomach - Natalie

Burn, right forearm - Nathaniel, wasn’t careful enough burning the body

Natalie had worked her way up to the necklace of bandages when  ~~Nathaniel Alex Stephan Chris~~ John started to feel his breath catch in his chest and jerked away from her hands. It didn’t take much coaxing under her partially gentle, mostly rough, grip to get him to still.

Natalie had managed to maintain her stoic silence all the way through but even she had to balk at the mess that was  ~~Nathaniel Alex Stephan Chris~~ John’s throat. It was a mangled, ugly thing that had been hastily stitched up by his mother’s fingers. She had been focused on functionality, not beauty and slowly bleeding out herself. His neck was mottled shades of yellow and black with black stitching at the center. Crusted blood came off with the bandage but not vital had broken loose. John wouldn’t have minded if it had, not really. 

“So fucked,” Natalie muttered, grabbing an alcohol wipe from his kit. “Stay still,” she warned, as if he had a choice. The cleansing liquid burned against his skin but he did his best not to pull away until the very end. Natalie kept a sharp grip on his arm, pressing down right where Lola had cut into him either as a distraction or an incentive. 

There was a beat of silence and then - “I need to be worried about whoever did this to you?” Natalie asked. Nathaniel stayed silent, thought for a moment, remembered the sound of gunshots and Lola’s shouts of rage, and shook his head. Nathan might not be dead, John didn’t even dare to dream, but they’d be too busy making sure the boss was alive and healthy to be looking for him, even if there was nothing to trace. 

_ No,  _ he shakes his head.

“Okay then, Doe,” Natalie responds, wrapping new bandages around his neck. “Welcome to the Bloodhounds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the chapter John's injuries are non-graphically described as Natalie bandages him up. If you do not want to read about Nathan and Lola then skip from Ontario 2002 to the -- at the end. Between there Nathan catches up with Nathaniel and Mary and non-graphically tortures them. Eventually Mary gets free and shoots Nathan. Lola slits Nathaniel's throat in retaliation.


	4. young enough not to know what to believe in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of violence, description of an anxiety attack. See bottom notes for more details. 
> 
> Title from Champions by Fallout Boy

Natalie worked her way up past the first floor of the crack house that Michael had claimed for his crew. It was dubiously safe at best and a writhing cesspit of infestation and destruction at worst. Honestly, it seemed perfect for the Bloodhounds with no home to go back to. Natalie was slightly wary of leaving John Doe here alone but what else could she really do?

Bring him home? The thought made Natalie snort out a short laugh. Sure, mom would be thrilled if she came up for air from her drunken stupor long enough to realize there was another presence in the house. But Natalie’s mother was never the problem. She was an easy supply of drugs at her best and neglectful at her worst. It was Jacob that Natalie had learned very wisely to be wary of.  

But Jacob wasn’t her problem right now. That honor went to John Doe. Natalie had left him exhausted and curled up on a ratty sleeping bag last night and she was curious to see if he had stuck around or ran. He seemed like a runner and he certainly had the legs for it. To her pleasant surprise when she reached the end of the hallway on the second floor it was to find the kid very much awake and on the alert.

“Hey pup,” Natalie greeted. John’s eyes flicked up at her with disinterest but his body told a different story. He held himself braced and perfectly still, holding back a violent flinch. Interesting. “Good to see no one finished the job while I was gone last night. Now up and at ‘em.”

John just eyed her, letting curiosity color his mostly dead gaze. Natalie just kept staring at him. It turned into a silent contest. (Natalie didn’t know it now but that would be their life together - a silent contest of clashing wills.) John’s eyes were a disturbingly bright shade of blue that didn’t match with his dusty brown, overgrown mop of hair. When neither looked away Natalie just sighed.

“Up,” Natalie said again and offered him a hand. John didn’t take it, but at least this time he stood.

“You know, life will go easier for you if you listen to me.” The smile John sent her in return was a sharp and wicked, almost laughing thing. Natalie briefly wondered if the boy could laugh with that mangled throat of his. _Sure_ , his raised eyebrows said, _I’ll listen to you alright. And then promptly ignore you_. His sharp grin screamed authority problem and Natalie couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, thought so,” she muttered. “Listen for me today at least. I’ll be giving you the lay of the land before you end up even more dead than you look right now.”

They descended the stairs together, John walking slowly due to his injuries but trying his damnedest to hide it. He moved with experience in dealing with his pain. Natalie briefly let herself wonder about the possibilities: a heavy handed father, an antagonistic demeanor and itching fists, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was any number of possibilities that could familiarize one with broken ribs but Natalie determined that, in the end, she didn’t really care.

John Doe was here now and his high tolerance for pain would come as a blessing. Michael’s turf wars were known to get bloody and violent just like internal affairs tended to. Natalie swallowed down hard and ignored the feeling of need that pulled her towards her own set of knives at the sharp reminder.

She swore that blood still stained their blades no matter how many times she cleaned them. She swore, in the silence of her bedroom, late at night when no one else was awake, that her hands were still coated in red. She wanted to regret that blood, those stains, but even in her weakness they still felt like victory.

John and Natalie took to the streets of the warehouse district that Michael had claimed for himself. It was a good location, easy access to hiding places and an unfamiliar territory to anyone who might try a hostile takeover. The Hounds knew the abandoned factories and warehouses that lined the streets of their territory like the back of their own hands. It was time for John to learn.

“Okay kid. I’m gonna give you your options right now before I waste my breath on the rest of this speech. You’re homeless, someone is obviously after you, and I don’t think you’ve had a hot meal in days, if not weeks. You want all three of those remedied? Join up. You can fight and you’re a feisty little bugger and Michael’s already given you his blessing.

“Give your loyalty to us, kid, and we keep you safe. Whoever gave you that pretty necklace won’t be able to get to you again, not without going through the entire gang first.”

Natalie could see John’s eyes laughing. The sheer disbelief that led to hysteria bubbling up inside of you because the proposition was too ridiculous to be true.

“Believe me or not kid, it’s up to you. You don’t wanna join, fine, scurry along. I’ll even put you together a pack to help you keep running but don’t you dare come running back.”

Natalie knew her first instinct had been right. This kid was a runner. His lithe build was only part of it though. The trapped look in his eyes and the way he searched for exits in every room told the rest of the story. There was a war going on in those blue eyes now.

Believe her or not.

Run or not.

Which do you choose: what you know or what you want?

Is there even a good answer?

There was no good answer, Natalie knew. But there was something better and after everything, she had to believe that the Bloodhounds were just that. Something better. Slowly, ever so slowly, John began to nod.

“I’ll take that as an okay, then?” Natalie asked. John paused, swallowed hard, and nodded. “Good choice. Then let me give you the lay of the land.”

Natalie spent the next few hours walking John Doe through the dark and desolate streets of Michaels’ territory. There was the occasional bar or club that they passed along with the run down convenience stores. Natalie smiled and waved to some of the girls working the street corners. It was becoming painfully obvious that John Doe wasn’t paying attention, burrowing further into his head instead of the real world. With a sigh Natalie steered them towards the nearest convenience store.

John needed a few protein bars and some water and probably more than the prescribed amount of painkillers. Natalie has assumed he kept some on him but she was starting to suspect that that wasn’t the case. John looked at her questioningly at they entered the store and Natalie paid for the box of off-brand granola bars and two water bottles but he didn’t raise any questions and Natalie didn’t answer the silence until they sat back down on the curb.

“Basically what this boils down to is stay between 59th street and College Boulevard and no one should have the balls to fuck with you. And if they do, you shoot them. Can you shoot?”

John nodded haltingly as Natalie unwrapped one of the granola bars and shoved it into his hands.

“Good. Shooting is good. You got a piece on you or do we need to get you suited up? Alejandro is our expert. I’m sure he can find something cheap for you for a favor or two. We don’t need a kid like you out there without protection, especially once word gets around about you being fresh blood. Mongols have been trying to poach out guys for months now.”

Natalie kept talking as John nibbled at his protein bar and listened with half an ear. Somehow he had made it through life with both of them intact but he seemed to refuse to put them both to good work.

“What about knives?” she asked, thinking through the list of supplies he would need. Natalie had been expecting many reactions, or maybe not a reaction at all, but the way John Doe flinched violently backward was something she did not see coming.

“I’ll teach you to use them. Dead useful and better than a pistol in a hands on fight, which you’ll be getting a lot of experience with. Trust me on that one, pup.”

John was still staring at her, eyes wide and unblinking. There was a life in those eyes, a life of nightmares, a life longer than thirteen years, but Natalie didn’t back down. She knocked her shoulder up against his to bring him back from whatever distant world he was getting lost in. By his startled jump, he seemed to be back with her. Or, at least, not so far away.

“We’ll get you a set tomorrow,” Natalie said with a decisive nod. “Consider it your welcome gift.”

Natalie turned to glare at him, in case of protest, but it seemed like John was too short on breath to resist whatever she said. He wasn't even hearing her.

 _Shit,_ she thought.

“John?” she said. “John Doe, listen to me. It’s Natalie. I found you yesterday. You’re in Detroit. You’re with the Bloodhounds. I need you to breathe.”

But John Doe wasn’t his real name and there was no reason to think he’d respond to it. Natalie kept trying anyway.

“John,” she said. “It’s Natalie fucking Shields. You don’t know me, but you need to get right the fuck back to the present. Understand?”

It took long minutes of threats, of repeating his name until it meant nearly nothing, until John was blinking slow and owlishly at Natalie like she was some strange, new creature, but at least his breathing had evened out.

“Good,” she said. She didn’t bring up the knives again. Really, it should’ve been obvious that a kid who had had his throat slit would have issues with knives.

They stayed sitting there for a long time. Natalie didn’t say anything. John, of course, didn’t say anything. He just sat stock still except for the trembling in his hands and seemed to be trying too hard not to think.

“Come on,” she said after a bit. They stood and walked back towards what they had generously classified as a safe house. Natalie made sure he got back to his own corner, made sure his eyes weren’t too clouded with the past, and left.

He’d be there when she came to find him or he wouldn’t be. He’d run or he’d stay. He’d live or he’d die. Natalie tried not to give a damn, but really, she hoped the kid would be okay.

Or at least, what passed for okay on these Detroit streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After “We’ll get you a set tomorrow,” Natalie said with a decisive nod. “Consider it your welcome gift.” John has a very vaguely described panic attack.


	5. you can't wake up, this is not a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Non-graphic sparring, referenced/implied rape/non-con, non-graphic violence, general violence. For more details, see notes below.
> 
> Title from Gasoline by Halsey

_ Tap tap.  _ The rattle of bare knuckles against hard wood.

“Hey John,” Natalie said to the grinning boy next to her. John felt like his skin was always being stretched too far these days but he smiled none the less. He was thirteen to Natalie’s fifteen, two years younger and two inches shorter with no growth spurt in sight. John knocked against the wooden wall again in greeting. Long knock, short. Short, long, long.  _ Nat  _ in Morse code. 

It had been just a few months ago that Natalie had picked John up, broken and delirious with malnourishment and soon-to-be infected wounds, and brought him before Michael. She hadn't known John then. She didn't know John now. But she knew his laugh and his busted vocal cords that were just now finally closing up. Together they had cobbled together a broken mess of the military language and were already expanding on their own signs for communication as well. 

Natalie had learned the wordless language for John. The taps and codes were just as foreign to Natalie as the rapid fire Spanish some of the others spoke, but for John, she learned. John wasn't sure how he felt about that. He had hesitantly dubbed him an ally, the only one he had, but that didn't stop the itching under his skin that screamed at him to run. It didn't stop his mother's voice in his head. 

“Right on time, I see,” Natalie said, picking a knife from where it was sheathed in her belt and twirling it in her fingers. John couldn't quite hold back his flinch, but he tried to smother it with a grin. His father's weapons. Lola's. John knew this was weakness and he knew Natalie was training him to get over. It didn't matter what she did though, he wouldn't pick up those knives until they were pressed against his neck again. Next time, he'd let them kill him.

“Ready?” Natalie asked. As he expected, she didn’t give him time to respond. It didn't matter. John's reflexes were sharp as ever, a gift from his mother and her hypervigilance that he treasured. It was a fight better than the one they had the day they met. It was technically sparring, no real blood lust behind the punches, but that didn’t mean they were soft with each other. It just meant they didn’t go for the throat.

That didn’t mean Natalie sheathed her knives, even if John refused to carry them.

They day they met John Doe had been soot stained and barely standing up but he had fought with an animal rage that he didn’t know how to contain. He still fought with the same reckless abandon, but with his wits about him it was swift control with a cutting edge of anger and desperation. To John, every fight was a fight for his life. And on the streets of Detroit that was a good trait to have. 

For all of John Doe’s viciousness though, Natalie was better. She knew every dirty trick in the book even if his cuts were clean, methodical, and lightning quick. 

They were both breathless by the time they reached a standstill, breathing hard and leaning against the brick wall that cuts into his skin like a too dull blade. John laughed, but it wasn’t crazed like that first day, like he was in front of the others. It’s a quiet, a simple chuckle. It didn't feel like a fight, to let that little noise go free. It felt like gratitude, in some ways.

“Same time tomorrow?” Natalie asked rhetorically. Four days a week Natalie met John Doe in the back alley as they pressed each other to be a better fighter, a better survivor. 

\--

They did not meet the same time tomorrow because on the streets of Detroit nothing was certain. In the life of John Doe, nothing should be taken for granted. 

Natalie had belonged to Michael and his crew for five years, Doe not even five months and in a life like this time was everything. Time was devotion, and when your time was short, devotion had to be proven in blood.

“Hey, Doe!” a rough voice shouted, causing John to jump. Fear rattled in his bones like it always did these days. There was a voice inside his head and smoke inside his brain and his tongue perpetually caught in his throat. John turned around to see what the older boy wanted - he couldn’t be more than a few years older than John, himself, but sheer muscle mass alone put John in very clear danger. He didn’t even have two seconds to even consider running ( _ never should have stopped running, Nathaniel, you run and you don’t stop, what did I teach you? You don’t stop! _ ) before a fist slammed into his gut. 

“Boss finally gave us permission to truly welcome you to the party,” the old boy snarled. John barred his teeth and grimaced as he got back to his feet. The leader - brown hair, brown eyes, mostly unremarkable, John hadn’t seen him before- didn’t try and shove him down again quite so fast. 

Seven or ten older guys stood behind their leader and spread out to corner John. It wouldn't take ten of them to take him, not anywhere close. They were here for the show. He wouldn’t get away easy, couldn’t fight them, and even if he did that would end badly if Michael really had sent them. If Natalie had lied. If that was the case he should go down easy. Swallow his pride, ignore his instincts, and roll over. 

John wanted to laugh. That wouldn’t happen. Not in a million years. 

There was a smile player across the oldest boy’s lips, mirrored by almost everyone in the small gang. Those smiles were a promise of pain, of misery, of making his life hell. Those smiles, their slow, catlike movements, and no escape told John one thing: this was a game and he was going to lose.

Didn’t mean John was going to make it easy.

If he was going down, he’d be going down bloody. He had his gun, two fists, and his own bloody smirk. 

_ Let the game begin. _

\--

Feet on gravel. Gravel in his blood. His blood on the ground. Feet walking towards him. John knew he should stand up. Defend himself. Try. But he couldn’t. Pain kept John pinned to the ground right alongside fear and humiliation. He couldn’t even pry his eyes open to try and look at his newest attacker. 

“John,” a voice said, quiet and as gentle as he had ever heard. “John, listen to me, you’re fine, alright? You’re fine.” The words didn’t seem true but John knew he needed them to be. He’s fine. It was a motto of sorts. Had been for years. Your mother is dead. Your father is alive. You are alone. You are fine.

_ You're fine. You're fine. You're fine. _

Keep moving, you’re fine. Get up, you’re fine. There’s a bullet in your shoulder and you cannot feel your leg, keep moving, you’re fine. There’s an iron being pressed against your flesh and you can’t help but scream, but you’re fine. She is bleeding out beside you, you're making promises that you’re breaking left and right, and you can smell the smoke like it’s choking you, but you’re fine.

_ You’re fine. You're fine. You are **fine**. _

John could feel a pair of hands take his face between them and he thought about struggling before realizing it’s not worth it. Let them take him, he’s too tired. 

“John,” someone says, and there’s that voice again. With what felt like a herculean effort he manages to pry one eye open, the other has already swollen shut, and comes face to face with Natalie. He wants to yell at himself, to scream, to beat himself to the ground like his mother would, for the relief he feels at seeing a flash of dark hair and grey eyes against pale skin. 

“I’ve got you,” Natalie promises and John shouldn’t believe her. But he does. Because he has to believe in something and his brain is filled with smoke that’s making him choke on broken promises. 

\--

The next time John opened his eye, he was lying on a mattress that’s too soft to be the one he occasionally “borrowed” from a junkie in the crack house he lives at with Michael’s other kids who don’t have a home to go back to. From his one seeing eye he could see faded blue painted walls, not cracked plaster and rotting wood. Something is wrong but the ache deep inside of him tells John to stay down, stay dead. 

He has never been good at listening to that voice. Moving was pain as he attempted to sit up, his entire body rebelling at the idea from the piercing pain jackknifing down his lower half to his brain as it fought determinedly to exit his skull. 

“John,” someone snapped and this time it didn’t take a visual for him to identify the voice he had so wrongly thought of as gentle. Natalie. “Lay back down before you pull something and bleed out on my bed, you fucking idiot. Normally when people get beat half to death they know better than to try moving the next day. So stay the fuck put.” John almost smiled, almost let that manic grin slide back onto his face and cling to it, but he couldn’t find the energy. 

Despite her words Natalie helped him sit up and placed a mug of coffee between his hands along with a not so small pile of pills. 

“Raided my mom’s cabinet,” she explained when John gave her a curious look. He certainly wasn’t going to complain. Anything to make the entire world numb.

“I’m taking you to the clinic later,” Natalie said after the pills were gone and the coffee with it. It was a good thing too because John would’ve just spat the hot liquid back up in her face. 

_ Clinc?  _ he tapped out against the wooden dresser. It sent fire racing through his knuckles but that didn’t matter right then. Just the single word sent panic singing through his entire body. What could medical professionals do that Natalie’s nimble hands and a bottle of jack couldn’t? They could ask questions and bring the police down on their heads, that’s what they could do.

_ No,  _ he tapped out with vehemence. 

“So glad you have faith in me, but I cannot tell if you're bleeding internally or not and I know you've broken three ribs.” Her voice softened in a way that sent John wanting to bolt, but he had nowhere to run to. “I also can't run blood tests myself.”

Blood tests, John thought. Thought about hands on him, pulling and taking and clawing. Thought about blood on gravel, gravel in skin, boots on gravel, boots grinding him into gravel. Thought about everything but the hands. 

“So, yes, clinic,” Natalie said, back to her efficient self. “I know a guy who will do it for a favor or two.” A favor or two. 

The words came back into John’s mind unbidden.  _ I’m doing you a favor, Doe. Doin' this for you. Aren't I nice. Show me how nice I am, Doe.  _ He felt his body lurch forward without his permission as he began dry-heaving at the foot of Natalie’s bed. Nothing came up except the pills he had swallowed earlier that sat half digested in stomach acid and the remains of coffee. 

Natalie moved forward as if to touch him, to comfort him, but the thought of any hands coming in contact with him right then made everything inside of him scream. Instead, he jerked back, reaching for where he knew he kept his gun. He found empty air where the pistol grip should be and the sheer vulnerability of his situation threatened to overwhelm him. 

He was weaponless for the first time in years at the time he most needed a gun in his hands. Natalie seemed to sense his distress and reached into her own waistband to pull out her own knife. John reached for it almost greedily. It didn’t matter that it was his father’s weapon of choice, it didn’t matter what Lola had done to him, that was Nathaniel’s problem - not his. 

John Doe took the knife like a starving dog for a bone and let the feel of cold metal wash over him. 

Sharp, crisp lines. The familiar tang of steel. The illusion of safety he held onto and wouldn’t let go of. His fingers curled around the handle and he let himself count to five. 

_One_. You're name is John Doe. 

_Two_. You are in Detroit. 

_Three_. Your mother is dead. 

_Four_. Natalie is an ally. 

_Five_. They come near you again, kill them. 

The thought didn't help shake the horrors of yesterday - two days ago? hours maybe? how long had it been? - but it made John feel marginally better. Made him feel safer, for all he knew that word to mean.

“They won't come after you again,” Natalie promised and John didn't believe her. But he believed the danger in her voice, believed the way she told Michael that he was her problem, her responsibility. Natalie had the same glint in her eye that his mother got when his father’s men got too close. That threat of “you touched what was mine, and you won't do it again” rang clear.

John held tightly to the handle of the knife and made a promise to himself.

They wouldn't touch him again. Damn Natalie. Damn his mother. He wouldn't become his father but he would not become a coward either. He wouldn't enjoy their deaths, wouldn't make them slow, but he would make them hurt. There was sadism and there was self preservation and John was all about the latter.

_ Clinic,  _ he tapped out when he felt a semblance of calm settle inside of his chest even as the word made him feel like a python had wrapped itself around his heart.. 

_ Thank you,  _ Natalie tapped back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first part of the chapter Natalie and John spar. After "Same time tomorrow" is John's gang initiation. Nothing is written on screen besides a few punches and John's thoughts on what's about to happen. Afterward, Natalie finds him and takes him home. John is overwhelmed by panic at what happened and Natalie references getting John tested at a clinic.


	6. we're in the ring and we're coming for blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: non-graphic violence, minor character death. See bottom notes for more.
> 
> Title from Glory and Gore by Lorde.

Life went on, as life tended to do. Sparring with Natalie and shooting practice with himself. Tentative alliances with other boys and scuffles on street corners and more scars to add to John’s collection.

This was new though, the collection of knives Natalie had gifted his not days after his “initiation.” He hadn’t refused them this time. They were a weapon, that was all. They were a chance at keeping him safe, keeping him safer, and John would take every advantage he would get. For all of Natalie’s promises that they would leave him be, John wasn’t stupid. He knew greedy men who thirsted for blood and he knew they didn’t stop.

The knives became part of his life, just like Natalie and working under Michael’s regime. John’s new developing normality did nothing to quell the sickness in his stomach when someone got too close or when he could hear his mother’s words all too clearly in his head, but it helped him ignore them.

“Stop being an idiot,” Natalie snapped one day in the middle of their sparring. John cocked his head to the side, the question evident even without his words. “Yes. Idiot. You left yourself wide open to an attack just then. I could’ve gutted you three times in the last three minutes.”

John fidgeted with his knife handle, not feeling quite guilty but knowing she was right. Not that he was going to admit it. He turned his inquisitive gaze into a glare and slashed his hand through the air in a clear signal to leave the topic alone. If John got gutted in a back alley fight that was his problem, not Natalie’s.

But it was almost as if Natalie could read his thoughts.

“You are _my_ problem, remember?” she said, trying not to snarl it.

John wanted to leave it alone. He wanted to stop. He wanted all of it to stop. But Natalie’s glare promised she wasn’t going to drop the topic and John had been pretending for his own sake for days now, for years really.

John felt his anger, weighed his choices, the price it might cost, and decided: fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.

John was so tired. So angry. _Then why weren’t you there!?_ John wanted to shout, but as usual his voice remained dead silent. Instead he took to banging it out in their mutilation of Morse code short hand. His normal quiet taps were angry bangs. John was thirteen, nearing fourteen, and the only outlet for his anger was turf wars that tended to turn bloody and his sparring with Natalie but even that wasn’t enough anymore.

There was danger on every street corner, in every crack and crevice of that poor excuse for a drug den that he slept in, in every familiar face that had been there months ago.

Michael had said so himself, John was supposed to be Natalie’s responsibility. So why wasn’t she there when he was officially “welcomed” into Michael’s crew. Hell, she was practically Michael’s left hand. She should’ve been there. John didn’t know if he wanted her there to stop it, to intervene, or just to be a witness, but something inside of him rebelled at not having that crow-black girl at his back.

As he finished out the sentence and understanding settled on Natalie's shoulders as her face fell.

“Michael didn’t tell me. When I asked he said I was ‘too attached.’” The words came out of her mouth ugly and twisted with a brittle laugh to follow. “Told me I was too soft. I came as soon as I knew.”

 _Not soon enough,_ something broken inside of John screamed but there was nothing Natalie could’ve done that she didn’t already do. She patched him up. She was still here with him, sparring and keeping him from death’s sweet edge.

There was no apology in her voice, they both knew that the sentiment of ‘sorry’ was worthless. There was just an offering of truth. Take it or leave it. Trust me or don’t. Die or keep living. That was all there was to it.

John felt himself nod, felt everything inside of him twist and rebel as his mother’s voice got louder.

_Don’t trust anyone. Tell me you’ll run. Don’t stop running. Do not trust a word out of anyone’s mouth. Go to my brother, go Nathaniel. Go. Don’t stop running. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop._

But his mother wasn't here and Natalie and her truths were.

“I told Michael he would let me know if he had plans for you or suffer a knife in the gut for his troubles. So that doesn't mean I'm going to let you take a bullet to the skull for your death wish. Understood?”

John nodded. He understood but he did not believe but he had learned long ago that those were two different things. In demonstration of his understanding, John threw himself back into the fight, this time being sure to keep his guard up high.

\--

It was barely a week later when someone decided to put Natalie’s words to the test.

“Doe,” someone said. John had positioned himself on the roof, his usual haunt these days. Two stories was a survivable fall, and really a broken neck wouldn’t exactly be regrettable. There was plenty of hiding spaces and other, if slightly unconventional exit strategies.

_Emergency exits. One story drop to the fire escape, two to the ground. Knife in your waistband. Knife in your boot. Pistols in the bag. They touch you, you kill them. They touch you, you kill them._

John saw him coming. This wouldn't be like last time. It wouldn't be. It couldn't be. There was a reason John had chosen the rooftop above every other safe spot and hideout. Because he wasn't afraid and everyone else was. After everything, heights were the least of his worries.

He recognized the Bloodhound approaching him now from those terrifying weeks ago. Those rough hands pulling back his hair, grasping his throat and not letting up. He recognized the scar on his neck that John had stared at while under his hands. He knew his name. AJ Connors. He had made John say it, over and over and over again.

John would make him scream.

Connors sauntered towards John, not a worry in the way he held himself or the way he looked at John. His eyes were hungry, not worried.

"I'm not here with Michael's blessing this time, but I figured we had so much fun last time.... now really would it be all that bad if we had a little bit more?" He smirked, and John saw red. He couldn't even say no. He couldn't say shit. But he could send his message and make it clear: do not touch me.

Conners was mere feet away now when John reached for the nearest weapon. His pistol was too far, in his bag not on his person. His knifes - however - were tucked right by the small of his back. He reached for the blade without thinking.

Right then John couldn't afford to think of his father, of Lola, or Nathaniel and all the other boys he had been. Right now he was John Doe, and right now he had a promise to keep to himself.

One. Your name is John Doe.

Two. You are in Detroit.

Three. Your mother is dead and your father is gone.

Four: You made yourself a promise, keep it.

Five: they will never lay hands on you again.

John took the knife from his waistband and let himself smile. He wasn't too tired to put on this show. The crazy boy with the crazy smile. Connors just smiled back and started to laugh. To laugh and laugh and laugh right up until John's first blow landed. Then, suddenly, he wasn't laughing.

It was a nasty fight, a bloody one, but weren't they all?

John stayed one step ahead of the punches and the less coordinated knife slashes, silently thanking Natalie for every sparring session. Every near miss, every escaped blow just made Connors angrier, more sloppy, and it just made John smile bigger. This was his game now.

"You fucking bitch," AJ snarled as he lunged at John, this time going for a solid hit to the stomach. John danced to the side and landed a slash to his upper arm. It wasn't his first hit, wasn't even a deep one, but it made Connors roar even louder.

John raised one of his eyebrows and smirked in a silent dare. Times like these it was probably a good thing he didn't have working vocal cords. His smart mouth used to get him into all kinds of trouble and he couldn't imagine it wouldn't just dig him into a deeper hole.

AJ kept advancing and John kept fending him off, still on the defensive, hoping somewhat naively that Connors will back down, will walk away. But that wasn't going to happen, the look in the older Bloodhound's eye proved that as he charged one last time.

And it would be the last time. He sidestepped the blow but Connors wasn't paying attention, wasn't seeing past the red haze of John's defiance. Too much momentum, too much anger, and that was all it took.

John chose the rooftop for a reason and that reason was that it was a long, long way down.

A sickening crunch from the pavement below. A sickening satisfaction deep in John's gut. A sickening smile playing across his face.

John pulled out his phone to text Natalie, to get this mess cleaned up, and tried not to enjoy the way something that felt like safety was beginning to settle on his shoulder.

He was okay. He had kept his promise. They hadn’t touched him. He was okay. He was okay.

\--

“Hey Doe!”

_Exit behind you. Two story drop out the window. Knife in your waistband. Knife in your boot. Pistols in their holsters. Two shots to center mass. Knife to the liver. They touch you, you kill them. They touch you, you kill them._

But it was just Tommy. There were few people John trusted, and that list included exactly no one. Natalie nearly made the list, or was closest to it, and beneath Natalie was Tommy. He was a quiet, dusty blonde boy not much older than John himself. He was another recent Hound recruit.

“Come on, Michael’s got a job for us. Needs us to get some info about a meeting change to some of the guys across town. You game?”

John gave a halfhearted shrug but stood up anyway which was as good as a yes from anyone else.

They descended the rickety stairs with John taking up the rear. He kept his hand hovering over his favorite knife before swinging around to his spot to grab his bag. It had been weeks since joining the Bloodhounds and he had finally taught people to stop touching his shit. If Tommy thought the need for the extra weaponry John was known to keep in there was unneeded, he didn’t say anything. It should be an easy drive, an easy exchange, nothing dangerous, but at this point, paranoia was a hard won skill.

Everyone knew John Doe was a paranoid bastard with more gunpowder in his veins than common sense. Everyone knew about his itchy trigger finger, they way he was always spoiling for a fight. And after Connors, all those weeks ago, people seemed to finally get the message.

John Doe shouldn’t be messed with, and not just because he was Natalie Shield’s new pet project.

They got in Tommy’s truck and started on the drive, and life, as life tended to do, went on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first part of the chapter Natalie and John spar some more. Later in the chapter a gang member from last chapter tries to corner John again and they fight. It ends with the gang member being pushed off the roof.


	7. something that I can't reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Drugs mention, gun violence, brief hospital scene, canon-typical violence. See below for more warnings.
> 
> Title from Ghost by Halsey

_ Something’s wrong _ , Natalie thought. Maybe it was paranoia, a part of her brain suggested but she could practically hear Michael's response to that. You’re not paranoid if they’re really out to get you and odds are that they’re really out to get you. 

Her contact had sent her a message two hours ago with the time and place of the meet and here she was. Her contact, she noted, was suspiciously absent. 

“Hey pretty girl,” a voice said from the darkness. Natalie, as a point of pride, didn’t startle. She just turned her cat like gaze onto the new comer, only to let herself relax.

“Oh, Todd, it’s just you. Didn’t know you were working this with me. Boss didn’t mention it.”

And maybe that should’ve been her first clue. But Todd had been in the game for longer than Natalie, been with Michael since the beginning. Natalie trusted Todd, more than she trusted most people.

And that was her mistake. Trust was a feeble thing, an unbelievable thing, a wretched lie. Todd had drawn his handgun before Natalie truly registered the movement. He was pointing the barrel towards her before she could react. It was a slow motion video of betrayal and bloody violence until the bullet pierced her skin.

Everything felt like it was moving in hyper speed once metal met flesh. The thing no one mentions about bullets is how much they burn. A small metal capsule, fired down a steel cylinder at incredible speeds, creates heat. Natalie might have almost failed physics but she knew that much. 

She also knew that much because there was currently fire crawling under her skin and carving a hole through her abdomen. 

Natalie fought the darkness, fought the pain. She reached for her knives even as she had collapsed onto the cold, hard concrete. There were hands rummaging through her pockets - Todd’s hand, a friend’s hands - but Natalie’s own fingers were going dumb. 

_ Blood loss _ , she thought.  _ Shock and blood loss. Keep those eyes open. Someone will come for you, they will. _

_ I will not die alone in a sad alley where no one gives a damn about me. I won’t. I won’t. He’ll come for me. He will.  _

Natalie didn’t know if she was thinking about Michael, about Todd, or about John. Maybe about all three. Maybe about none of them. Maybe she was thinking about God. The thought made her laugh, a wet, gurgling sound. 

God was gone, and as soon as she heard the sirens in the distance coming closer she knew that for a fact.

\--

Natalie woke up to coarse sheets, bright lights, and the constant beeping of machines. 

Her first thought was:  _ hospital _ .

Her second thought was:  _ shit _ .

She tried to swivel her neck to get a view of her surrounding but before she even spied the uniformed officer’s outside of her room she felt the cold bite of metal against her wrist. 

Her third thought was:  _ double motherfucking shit _ . Whoever said ladies didn’t cuss had never been caught by the cops in possession of drugs and a wonderful bullet wound to the gut. Reasonably, Natalie knew the cops had probably saved her life. And it’s not like she wanted to die. But she knew what waited for her in prison and she’d take death any day.

She tried to take a deep calming breath, thankful for the hospital’s fine medication just then.  _ In, out. Two, three. In, out. Four, five. In, out. Six, seven. In, out. Eight, nine.  _ When Natalie felt slightly more steady she focused her senses outwards to pick up what the officers might be saying.

“Drug deal gone wrong is our best guess,” Natalie can hear one of the uniforms saying from outside the minimal protection her bed curtain provided. That wouldn’t last. Once they knew she was awake there would be questions. Nat knew that song and dance from the multiple times her mom’s boyfriend of the week decided to let loose.  

But she’d never been in possession of drugs before. They’d never known she was a Bloodhound before. She had never been in this much trouble before. 

_ Shit _ , she thought and tried to breathe through the pain.

\--

When Natalie got out of the hospital it was to be greeted with Michael’s not so gentle arms. He had heard of the commotion by now, of Todd turning over his Bloodhound calling card for the Mongols and damning Natalie to police custody. Michael’s kingdom was in the precarious place of falling and he, much like his angelic counterpart, was not a fan of losing and made sure his own vengeance would be sweet.

“Did you talk?” Michael snarled as he slammed Natalie against the wall. She felt practically naked without her knives and the spiked bat one of Michael’s goons held did nothing to assuage that feeling. Natalie wanted to be offended, wanted to pretend like it wasn’t fear that was living in her chest right then.

But Natalie had always been a liar. For all she had been born soft hearted and with a untamable violence streak, she also had her “mama’s lying eyes” as Jacob - or was it Domonic now? Whoever her mother’s current fuckboy was - liked to say. And Natalie knew she could make him believe her.

“Of course not,” she said, indignation welling up in her tone. “I’m no rat, Michael. You know that. What, think I turned Mongol too?” She made herself laugh, a cold and harsh thing. “Or goody two shoes? After all the shit you’ve done for me do you really think I’d flip?”

Michael sized her up, his calloused palm pressing harder into her chest with just enough pressure to be threatening. Natalie knew this song and dance. She held his stare, fierce and unmoving, and willed him to believe her. 

They were called the Bloodhounds for a reason and this is why: Michael was an attack dog, staring you down until you cower, hungering for blood. Those who survive, who thrive, at his side keep his gaze and do not look away. They did not bare their throats and lay down to die. Call it what you will; respect, a challenge, the price of your soul. But Natalie knew she could keep his gaze and not flinch. 

If felt like minutes but it was most likely only a few seconds until Michael released her, laughing.

“Good girl, Natalie. I knew I could trust you. Come on, let’s get you home.” 

Natalie smiled and laughed with him and pretended like she wasn’t thinking about cutting off his hands for touching her. Like she didn’t want to grab John, grab her shit, and get them both to the station as soon as possible. 

It was like Michael always said: odds are someone was really out to get you. Afterall  don’t let your left hand know what your right hand does, especially if it was slitting your own throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first part of the chapter, Natalie is shot during a drug deal. She wakes up in a hospital and when she is discharged Michael hurts her as an intimidation tactic.


	8. all the wolves begin to howl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.
> 
> Title from Revolution by The Score

John stayed up, waiting for Natalie. 

Everyone has heard about the deal gone bad. The Hounds had been restless all night. They were out for the blood that gave them their name, wanting to tear Todd limb from limb for betraying his own. John had kept himself separate, away from their rage and their war cries. They didn’t trust him, didn’t like him, and that was fine. What wasn’t fine was Natalie stuck in a cell. She was his ally here, one of his only allies. 

So he waited. Practiced with his knives in the abandoned loft he had hesitantly started calling home and kept his gun close at hand. He waited. And just like he knew she would come, here she was. 

She walked in obvious pain, blood dripping from the side of her mouth. John had to wonder if it was the cops who roughed her up or Michael. The chances were fifty fifty.

“Grab your bag,” Natalie said. Her voice was gruff, laced with pain. Catching her eyes though, John saw that pain wasn’t the most important thing. Panic and ice cold resolve were at war in those brown eyes. 

_ Why?  _ John tapped out. Panic began to flutter in his chest too, though he didn’t let it show. If Natalie was letting her fear surface, John had a right to be wary as well. Natalie’s next words cemented that belief.

_ You’re running,  _ Natalie tapped out, sure that her words weren’t safe for these halls.  _ The Hounds won’t survive the week.  _

They offered her a deal. Offered her something. Was it the cops or someone else? Maybe the Mongols had turned her too. The better question: why did John care? He could run. He had before. Run fast, run far, don’t stop. He had promised, after all. It wasn’t like the Hounds would find him. They wouldn’t even look. 

One thing was for sure. Without Natalie, he wouldn’t stay. He couldn’t. John claimed loyalty to Michael, but that had always been a hollow promise. John was here because there was a roof over his head, weapon’s easy at hand, and the great location of Detroit being not Baltimore. But Natalie was a different story.

She was Michael’s little girl. His bloody left hand. She stood by Michael’s side and talked about family like it was real. 

And maybe, just maybe, John had started to believe her. Not about Michael. Not about family. But about allies, about her protection. Natalie listened. She pushed and pulled and snarled and smiled, and John had started to believe her. More than a year at Natalie’s back and he had bled for her just as she had bled for him. 

Blood meant something. Maybe not family blood, but the blood you were willing to spill. 

John had spilled blood for Natalie and believed her and if that wasn’t a sure sign that he should grab his bag and hit the road, John didn’t know what was. Staying was dangerous, he knew. Believing people, trusting people, was as deadly as a bullet. 

But here John stood. Toe to toe with a girl who had offered him a hand when he was ready to give it all up. This was a girl who had given him knives, given him protection, given him trust. This was a mistake. This was a death sentence. This was John’s choice. 

_ No,  _ he tapped out against the wall, in this language only they knew.  _ Take me with you.  _

And she did.

\--

John had been in a police station twice in his life. 

Once, when he wasn’t even been ten years old. They hadn’t bothered to cuff him and in the end that had been their mistake. Their second mistake had been letting him go into a bathroom with windows. John’s mistake had been getting caught and Mary made sure he didn’t make it again.

The second time was worse. Crooked cops that Lola and Malcolm had paid off to hand him over when John had been caught shoplifting. He had fought his way out of there, killing two of the cops and nearly taking out Malcolm too. He was twelve and it had cost him a broken ankle, a gunshot wound, but not his innocence. It wasn’t the first time he had killed someone. 

John had spent all of his life trying to escape police attention, be it in his father’s house or outrunning the law as well as Nathan with his mother, or even the past year and a half with the Bloodhounds. Blue uniforms only meant one thing; John hadn’t done his job well enough.

After all that, after every lesson that had been beaten into him, here John was. Natalie stood next to him, her hand resting close to his even if they weren’t quite touching. She lifted her hand to gently tap her fingers against his wrist twice in quick secession. 

_ Stay or go?  _ she was asking. Run, she was offering. But John would be damned if he let her face this alone. He was tired of loneliness eating away at him and he wouldn’t leave Natalie to that fate. 

He answered her by intertwining their fingers and meeting her eyes. He gave her a decisive nod as blue eyes met brown and they entered the station together. Maybe this was a death sentence, but John knew it was worth it.

\--

The officer manning the front desk watched them closely, her stern brow furrowed and her hawk’s glare intent. John gave her a grin, just because he could, before turning his eyes back to the exits and counting the number of guns in just one room. 

_ You alright?  _ Natalie tapped out against the hard plastic of the waiting room chair. 

_ Tap tap knock. Tap knock tap knock tap knock knock. Tap tap tap tap knock. _

_ Fine,  _ John responded. 

_ Tap tap knock tap. Tap tap knock tap tap.  _

Natalie raised her eyebrows, clearly calling bullshit, but before she could say anything another officer was walking up to them. 

“Your case agent should be here in ten minutes,” he said, but his tone conveyed the rest of the message.  _ Then you won’t be our problem anymore.  _ The case agent being the poor soul who got handed their social service files. John could only imagine their horror at realizes they were now in charge of two murderous delinquents, one a top tier member of one of Detroit’s bloodiest gangs and the other with a personal history that included the name “John Doe” and just about nothing else. 

Social security: none. 

Birthday: none.

Age: fifteen - estimated. 

Fingerprints: unregistered. 

A true John Doe indeed. 

It was a honest-to-god miracle that a social service worker was coming for them, and not a prison van. A miracle in the form of an over ambitious public defense attorney that had taken one look at Natalie and seen a way to take down a Detroit gang and maybe more for good. She was a ruthless woman, one John had to admire. She had her eyes on the DA’s office and was planning on getting there. _ More likely to be dead in a ditch before she got that far, but bless her for trying _ , he thought sardonically. 

Death wish or not she had gotten Natalie and John a year in a juvie group home instead of a life sentence in prison and that was something. John tried not to think about why he wasn’t running when this would’ve been the perfect chance. It’s not like Natalie had dragged him to the station, though she hadn’t been averse to making him part of the deal either. 

The police had taken a bit more convincing. John’s slit throat had raised many more questions than it answered, but he certainly wasn’t going to fill in the blanks for them. Couple that with his and Natalie’s pseudo morse code and their half gestures thrown in made negotiations tricky and annoyed the local leos to no end. If anything that had been a bonus, though. 

_ Pinocchio,  _ they called him. A broken puppet of a boy. John let himself laugh. Let himself smile his shark’s smile, that crazy grin. He dared them to do something, though neither party was quite sure what. After these long days on confinement John was itching for a fight, itching for his pistols or even his knives, but instead the only weapon he had was his smile. 

He was grinning like that now, all teeth and manic laughs. 

Natalie didn’t even raise an eyebrow at him. She was stoic in her silence, the picture perfect princess all dressed up in gang tats and scars. Quite a pair they made, the two of them. He could already hear the rumors the juvie house would fill with, not to mention the high school halls. John vividly remembered high school. He vividly remembered keeping his head down. Somehow, he thought that wouldn’t be possible this time around. 

_ Ready? _ Natalie asked, drawing John back to the here and now. High school came later, first was this: a new place, new people, new territory, new threats.  

_ As I’ll ever be,  _ he replied and hoped it would be enough. 


	9. don’t come looking for me / i don’t wanna be found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Panic attack. See notes below for more details. 
> 
> Title from To Be Free by Tonight Alive

High school did not improve when one simply changed locations, Natalie decided. At least she wasn’t at her old school where she would be firmly labeled a rat and might not survive the week. No this was a  _ fresh start  _ as their social service worker said. Natalie at managed to reserve her eyeroll but John had made no such effort. 

_ Fresh start my ass,  _ Natalie thought sullenly as she had sat through the lecture. Now, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair at ass o’clock in the morning surrounding by strangers, Natalie remembered exactly why she hated school. Borning teachers, same shitty teenagers, same useless information. None of this would help her in real life and Natalie knew it. And, just to make matter worse, the stern woman who was standing in front of the class had just turned her eyes on Natalie.

“And this is our new student, if she’d like to stand up and introduce herself?”

She might’ve posed it like a question but Natalie wasn’t stupid. She had watched kids do this song and dance occasionally but had never had to do it herself. Everyone at her old school at known about Natalie the Bloodhound Bitch. What was she supposed to say?

‘Hi, I’m Natalie Shields and I like to throw knives’ or ‘I like to make men scream’? The thought almost made Natalie laugh to herself. These kids wouldn’t know a switchblade from a butterfly knife probably. Instead, she thought about the few things she had kept track of at her old school. 

Standing up, Natalie said, “Hi, I’m Natalie Shields. I like exy.” 

No one had messed with the exy players at her old school. It was also one of the less popular sports so hopefully, no one would try and talk to her about it and it was violent enough that it might give some people pause. The ones it didn’t… well, Natalie still had her knives.

She sat back down before the teacher had the chance to question her further, letting a distinct air of “I don’t give a shit” roll off her. 

The teacher took the hint, or simply decided that one new student wasn’t worth the effort, and started in on her lesson. Natalie happily zoned out and wondered about how John was doing in his first class. She was sure it was going  _ great _ .

Natalie knew school. This was her song and dance, her day in day out routine for years, but for all Natalie knew John hadn’t even gotten past middle school. Kid was smart as a whip, sure, but he had certainly missed the last few years of school and the impression she was getting is that he didn’t spend much time in school before either. Generally, people who knew how to cut someone up that effectively didn’t have education at the forefront of their minds. 

Then again, it wasn’t like the teachers would be asking him to stand up and introduce himself exactly, would they?

He was supposed to be spending one of his classes with other kids in need of “special education” where someone was going to try and teach him sign language. Natalie almost wished she could be there just to see the teacher quickly break down from frustration, but alas, she was stuck in US History. 

As the bell finally rang, Natalie nearly jumped to her feet and headed out into the halls. She was hoping to see John between classes, but in a school this big and with the two year chasm between them it was unlikely. Unless, of course, something went wrong. But as Natalie headed to her next class, she couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, today wouldn’t go to complete shit. 

\--

By the time the bell finally rang for lunch, Natalie was itching to see John with her own eyes. Four hours separated really wasn’t all that long, but this was  _ high school _ . John was already uncomfortable just being within a foot of another person, let alone being shoved in a small room with only one exit with thirty plus hormonal teenagers. 

If he hadn’t ran or bitten off someone’s fingers by now, it would be a miracle. 

As it happened, miracles were possible. Entering the lunchroom, her eyes quickly scanned the room for overgrown brown hair and those blue eyes. Scanning the exits, Natalie found him quick enough and while John's hands trembled with his nervous energy and he smiled like his skin had been saved on too tight, but his eyes were clear.    
  
As the week wore on, Natalie worried more. His fingers moved from dancing against the table top nervously to tracing the burn scars that raced up his forearms. His grin became a more percentage fixture both at school and at the halfway house. When Friday rolled around Natalie knew John was at the end of his rope.    
  
Natalie had barely stepped into the lunch hall and started heading towards their usual table when a blur of motion caught her off guard. Maybe it was from almost two years trying to keep track of the skittish bastard, but Natalie knew when her boy was running.    
  
Natalie chased after him, trying to play catch up with calf muscles of his. It didn't take long. John was fast, but he was also disoriented. In a building this big he didn't have all of his exit strategies down yet.

Entering the lunchroom, her eyes quickly scanned the room for overgrown brown hair and those blue eyes. Scanning the exits, Natalie found him quick enough. The crowded room had to be hell on his senses, not to mention his healthy sense of paranoia, so as soon as Natalie was beside him they were out the door and down the hall. 

He looked like hell. He seemed almost sickly pale and his normally still hands were dancing with nervous energy. One look at him and Natalie knew they needed privacy and they needed it quick.

She was careful not to touch her friend as he practically raced down the hall, but made sure to keep pace. Nothing good would come of letting the skittish bastard out of sight. 

Together they ducked into the nearest space that provided even minimal privacy. The fact that it was a woman’s restroom didn’t seem to phase either of them as they headed for the handicap stall at the end of the row. Natalie locked the door behind them and turned to face John. 

The freshman sat with his back pressed against the wall, his eyes racing, as if trying to drink in the room in front of him just in case it wasn’t real. Natalie careful sat herself down in front of him. 

“John. Listen to me, it’s Natalie Shields. Are you listening to me?” 

By the way his breathing sped up, Natalie knew John wasn’t with her. Not really. 

“Your name is John Doe. My name is Natalie Shields. It’s 12:15 in the afternoon, we’re at school. I need you to breath John. Come on, head between your knees and breathe. I know you know how to do this smartass,” Natalie said. John’s eyes were locked on something behind Natalie’s own head and didn’t even move as she reached forward and placed a comforting hand on the back of his neck. 

John, predictably, flinched. His blue eyes flicked over to Natalie, a spark of recognition flaring to life.

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s me, you fucker. I’m gonna touch you again. Head between your knees so you can do this thing called breathing. Got it? Breathing.” 

John nodded haltingly, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead. Natalie placed her own calloused hand on the back of his neck and pushed him gently down until his head rested between his knees. 

“Exactly like that,” Natalie said. “Remember John, it’s just me. Natalie Shields. We’re at Northwest High School. We’re safe. The door is locked and I’m right here. You’re safe.  

_ Safe,  _ John’s shaky fingers tapped out against the disgusting tile underneath him. 

“Yep,” Natalie confirmed. “Just me, you, and a toilet that’s clearly growing some sort of fungus which actually may be lethal if I think about it. Think I could kill a guy with toilet fungus? Because I totally could.”

That earned her a wet chuckle at least. 

_ Totally,  _ John tapped out. He didn’t raise his head quite yet, but the response gave Natalie some hope. She let herself continue to prattle on, meaningless conversation until John felt safe enough to face the world again. 

They had done this for each other hundreds of times before, maybe even thousands. So much was changing, but Natalie doubted this ever would.

Just as Natalie really started to get going on how incredibly dull her trigonometry teacher was, John finally looked up. His chest was rising and falling in even beats now and his eyes were clearer. 

‘No smoke,’ John had told her once, trying to reassure her that his panic had passed. It didn’t make much sense to Natalie at the time, but looking into his eyes she thought it seemed accurate. Those blue eyes were sharp and steady, and really, that was all Natalie would ask for. 

“You good?” she asked. 

He nodded in affirmation and together they stood. 

They made the wise choice of not going back to the lunchroom, in case such a large group of people threw John right back into a panic, and instead lingered in the halls until the bell rang. Natalie was hoping for a mostly silent period of time with just her and John, but that didn’t seem to be the case. 

Natalie could feel John tense up as footsteps echoed down the hall.  _ Paranoia _ , Natalie thought someone hypocritically as she felt herself reaching for a knife that wasn’t there. 

It was just a student though. Just a run of the mill brat who didn't spare them a second glance.

They were fine.

\--

The weekend was a well deserved break, even with the strict guidelines living under miss Garcia’s reign. Miss Garcia was a perpetually tired, often grumpy, older woman who might not be kind but at least was decent. She let them have their space and as long as no one ended up maimed she left them alone. 

Space was a valuable commodity. It gave them the time and the privacy to plan. Sitting on the overgrown back porch of the house Natalie looked down at the sketchbook John had handed her. On the pages was a disproportionate blueprint of the house. Three spots were marked.   
  
A ceiling panel in the closet that John shared with four other boys, the floorboards by the window in the basement, and another x that marked the entrance to what Natalie assumed was the attic. Leave it to John to find the hidden locked crevices in high places.   
  
_Weapons_ _cache_ , John wrote as he pointed to the Xs by the attic and the ceiling panel. _Money_ _stash_ , he wrote and pointed to the basement spot.   
  
"You sure that's safe?" Natalie asked, turning to the next page to check over John's supply lists. John raised an eyebrow and took a drag from his cigarette. At some poin, he had stopped staring at the smoke and started using the nicotine like it was meant to be used. 

_ Safer than leaving us defenseless, _ he tapped out against the pad of paper.  _ Safer than not having a plan. You know they're still looking for us.  _ __  
  
They, of course, being the Hounds.    
  
"Yeah," Natalie said grimly. "We keep our heads down, alright John? We wait for our year to be up, and we make a plan. Me and you. I'd say skip town but right now there's no point in having the cops on our asses."   
  
John nodded.  _ Plan _ , he tapped out and followed it up with their signal for  _ me and you.  _ __  
_  
_ __ Me and you , Natalie confirmed.

She tore out one of the supply lists and smiled. “Guess we better get started then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the second section after "He looked like hell." John's panic attack is described. It ends at "He nodded in affirmation and together they stood."


	10. the ghost of you is close to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nightmares, reflecting on the death of a parent, illusions to suicidal ideation, implied/referenced rape/non-con, knife violence. See notes at the end for more info.
> 
> Title from Goner by TwentyOne Pilots. Alt. title: Repression is not a healthy coping mechanism, John.

Black, dense smoke that covered everything surrounding John with a darkness so heavy John couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He could, however, feel his hand as his burning finger tips send pain signals to his brain. That was just part of the pain though.

It was as if every part of John was on fire, white hot and burning. In John’s dreams, he could scream. And in this dream, he did.

His screams reverberated back to him in his form of matching cries. In the darkness, John couldn’t be sure who was trapped in this hell with him. A sinking feeling told him that it had to be his mother. A burning skeleton left behind in car ashes, abandoned by her son.

A hopeless part of him wondered, prayed, that is was his father. Maybe it was finally over. Maybe they’d all die, bloody and burning, a hellish happy family.

 _Then again,_ John thought, _maybe I never made it out alive in the first place_. Maybe this was death. Maybe everything after had just been a fever dream.

John spent what felt like forever trapped in that smoky hell, listening to his mother’s cries echo his own, when he felt the hands grab him. He was never sure if they were Lola’s, her knife reaching for his neck, or if they were Alejandro's, who hands reached for his hips and ever lower.

In the end, it didn’t matter, because no matter who it was John _screamed_. But this time, he was completely alone.

\--

John woke panting and with just enough consciousness to know that the high pitched, keening sound that was piercing the air came from him. He tried to shut down the noise himself before one of the other boy’s took it into his own hands, but his constricting chest wasn’t being helpful in that particular endeavor.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement and barely refrained from reaching for his knife. Instead, he settled for rolling out of the way of the uncoordinated hit and glaring.

Alexi, a boy two years older than John and just months from aging out, glared right back. With his half-shaved black hair and multiple piercing, John supposed he was meant to look badass. On most days, John found him laughable instead, but that didn’t stop familiar fear from rising up inside of him and settling in his stomach.

“If you don’t fucking shut up, I will goddamn make you,” the boy snarled. John let his blue eyes glaze over icily before giving Alexi the one finger salute and standing up. Alexi just rolled his eyes and contemplated throwing his pillow before rolling over and going back to sleep. John did no such thing.

It was still early, before sunrise but after midnight. Four am, if John had to guess, and as good a time as any to start his day. It’s not like he had any plans to get back to sleep.

His mother’s ghost haunted him enough in his waking hours, better not give her the undivided attention of sleep. He grabbed his backpack from where it sat at his feet and made his way up towards the attic in order to check on the weapons they had stored under some of the looser floorboards and for the easier rooftop access. It wasn’t a good idea. Miss Garcia would have his head if she found him up there, but it was worth it.

For the rush of the height, for the feeling of safety, a sure fire drop to the death brought, facing the wrath of an overweight, underpaid, middle aged woman was nothing. Picking the attic lock was child's play, as was lifting the floorboards to triple check that there was still two pistols and a stash of bullets were still undisturbed. After that he climbed through the third floor window and out onto the roof shingles and felt himself began to breathe.

Two years. It had almost been two years. The very idea of that much time passing since John Doe became John Doe made him feel sick, but not quite as much as knowing that his mother would kill him if she could see her son now.

It had been two years and John had a name that he'd hadn't managed to shed like snake skin, he had an ally who kept convincing him to stay. He had tentative trust strung between him and Natalie and a growing plan for the future. Maybe job wasn't stupid enough to fall in love with this one, but he was stupid enough to stay even after everything.

Mary Hatford was rolling over in her grave, that much was for sure. It wasn’t surprising that she was tearing apart John’s psyche too.

John didn’t bother to check his watch, instead, he pulled out his flashlight and Algebra book and ran through problems until his brain felt awake, the smoke had mostly dissipated, and the sun started to rise.

John knew, eventually, his lack of sleep would come back to bite him, but for now his two or three hours during the night and his catnaps during his lunch break were enough to keep him lucid. He could feel himself stretching at the edges, his smile tugging at his lips more often than not, but he was fine.

Really, he was fine.

Some time after sunrise, but before the house really got moving, Natalie stuck her head out the window.  
  
"Get inside you little shit," she grumbles, before ducking back inside herself. John shoved his books into his bag and climbed through the window after her.

They ran through their morning routine as quickly as they could. John used his five minutes in the bathroom to change and brush his teeth as fast as he could, trying to limit his exposure to the other boys as much as possible. Breakfast was a granola bar while Natalie poured herself a cup of coffee. In less than ten minutes on most days they were out the door and walking to school.

The longer walk was worth it, rather than riding the bus. The idea of being that close to so many people, of hearing that many voices grating against his skin, made John want to climb a wall and never come back down. Class, if it wasn’t for the work, would be unbearable for the exact same reasons.

There were no quick exits to be had and in order to be close to the door he would have to give up having his back to the wall. Whichever choice John made as he chose his seat for the day, the other vulnerability left him distracted and going crazy.

But really, he was fine.

And it wasn’t like any of these other kids could even come close to being a threat. Most of the time a well placed snarl and icy glare was enough to send them scurrying away from him. If not John had his pocket knife he had managed to smuggle past the metal detectors and kept on him at all times, except for the hellish hours that was p.e. class.

“You with me, Doe?” Natalie asked. “I can hear your paranoia pitching a fit from over here.”

John flattened his hand and pointed his thumb toward his chest before bringing it up to mock cut across his throat. A tasteless gesture in the grand scheme of things but it was their sign for “fucking drop it.” The flat palm, thumb to chest gesture was actually something John had picked up from his “independent study” during his special needs class while reading up on American Sign Language.

“You know, the more you say that, the less I believe you. But sure, I’ll drop it,” Natalie said and let it drop. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid this morning, and John’s hair was getting dangerously close to being able to braid it too. He thought about having Natalie cut his hair, but then again, _paranoia_.

‘I’m fine,’ he signed again, for good measure. Natalie settled her glare on him but left it be. When they parted for class, Natalie snagged his shoulder.

“You’re fine. Sure. Find me if shit goes down though, okay? I know you’ve got your burner, I’ve got mine. You call, I pick up. Okay?”

John nodded, his hands skittering up and down his leg with nervous energy, and let himself smile. He could take care of himself. Natalie let go of his shoulder uneasily and walked off. She didn’t cast a look back at him, but John could swear he felt her grey eyes on him.

\--

John was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine.

If he woke up near-screaming during his lunch-time catnap to Natalie’s perpetually worried eyes, it was fine.

If he could still smell smoke on his clothes, could still feel it in the air, it was fine.

John was fine.

 _Two years_ , he thought, and wanted to die.

\--

The thing about grief was that when you tried to bury your grief with the body, it was really never that simple. There was a ghost that lived in John's head that refused to die.

It was in gym class that John finally felt himself snap.

Class itself was fine. He wasn’t worried about what this piss-poor bastard thought of him and his scars as he changed out. If his time with the Hounds taught him anything, it was confidence. Or, at least, a facade of it.

And maybe it was the confidence that did him in, in the end. Because when he got back to the locker room to change out before his next class, it was to an empty locker. John might not be familiar with high school, but even he knew this was juvenile. He turned on his heel slowly, to face the rest of the crowd that he knew had to be congregating behind him.

It was times like this John wanted his voice back. He wanted to tear these bastards a new one. _Guess it’ll just have to be the old fashioned way_ , he thought. Then he thought about him, and about Natalie, and about laying low.

John knew that plan was out the window as soon as he saw his pocket knife in the hands of the boy who was obviously leading the pack. John didn’t know his real name, just knew that the other kids called him Gemini. _Two faced_ , John thought before thinking about cutting the boy’s hands off.

He wasn’t a threat. Not really. He was a kid, fourteen years old and playing at bigger things. John was almost fifteen, and felt so much older. He had survived bigger things than this boy and his loose fighting stance and the way he held the knife like he wasn’t actually going to use it. But that was _John’s_ knife. Possession is nine tenths of the law, after all, and John had fought for the knife.

After everything; after his father and Lola and ambitious boys who wanted to tear John down no one else would bring that metal blade against his skin.

“Hey Mute-y,” Gemini said, his body language was lax and his eyes leering. If John didn’t plan on cutting off his fingers one by one for taking his knife, he would do that and worse for the way he thought he could look at John’s body.

John felt himself raise a casual eyebrow, but really, he felt a million worlds away. Somewhere, he could hear himself screaming. Somewhere, he could smell smoke. Someone, a woman was slitting a boy’s throat and hoping he died. Somewhere, that boy was making promises he would break.

John would be damned if _after everything_ , it was this child that tried to take him down.

At some level, John knew what he should do. He should laugh this off, land a good punch, and take back his shit. But John wasn’t all the way here right now, and honestly, he didn’t care. He was itching for a fight, a reason to spill blood, and this was the perfect opportunity.

He looked at Gemini. He looked at the handful of lackeys backing him up. He looked at his knife in the hands of someone else and felt himself nod.

 _Easy,_ he thought, before he stopped thinking at all.

The fight was too pitiful to even call a fight. It was a massacre. It was a goddamned disaster. It was quick punches and broken fingers, faces slammed into lockers, and kids running scared. John let them. Gemini was the one he wanted. Gemini was the one with the knife.

When John cornered the boy, it was to find fear in his eyes and his fingers shaking. That didn’t stop him from trying to smirk, from letting careless words fall from his lips.

“Think you’re such a big deal, Doe? Think you can take me? Well fine, but I’ll be back and I’ll bring bigger guys. We’ll bring you to your knees, you fucking bastard. We’ll have you on your knees and asking for it.”

There was screaming in John’s ears and it was his own. There was a knife in his hands, and it was his own. John snatched it from Gemini’s shaking hands and flicked it open. The blade wasn’t sharp and the thought made John smile. This would hurt.

As soon as he started to scream John pressed against his throat until it was a battle to breathe, let alone scream, and cut just a little bit deeper into the boy’s torso. Maybe the other boys would come running with coach at their backs. Maybe he’d be in jail before the day was over. Maybe John was finally out of shits to give.

It had been almost _two goddamn years_.

Finally satisfied, John let the boy go and wiped the knife clean on his gym shirt. Leisurely, he picked up Gemini’s phone and opened up his notes app. In quick, efficient letters, John spelled out exactly what should be expected from now on.

_You don’t talk to me. You don’t come near me. You don’t touch my shit again. You don’t tell anyone about this or I’ll find you and I’ll do a lot worse. They’ll never find the body. Think I’m lying? Your call, but this isn’t a bet I’d take._

And with that settled he changed into his normal clothes, pocketed his knife, and left the fourteen year old shivering on the stained linoleum floor.

\--

“There’s blood on your hands,” Natalie said. John turned to meet her eyes and shrugged. He could take care of himself. He was _fine_.

It had been almost two years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first part of the chapter John has a nightmare involving darkness and being hurt with allusions to his time with the Bloodhounds and his father. John casually mentions his own death and his uncaring about it. 
> 
> At "It was in gym class that John finally felt himself snap." to the very end of the chapter non-graphically describes a fight John has with another student which includes John stabbing him and illusions to rape/non-con.


	11. give you my best side, tell you all my best lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings for the chapter.
> 
> Title from Homemade Dynamite by Lorde

John was getting distant. He hadn’t been like this in a long time. Not since that horrible night when Natalie picked him up off the gravel and took him home. He still stayed by Natalie’s side, still sparred with her behind the shed in the backyard, but lately there was a new viciousness to it. While John had never pulled his punches before, he had never been this ruthless either. Not since that night and the weeks after. 

They walked to school in silence. John finally gave up on trying to sleep during their lunch hour and Natalie hoped it was because he no longer spent his nights awake, but she knew she was wrong. They walked home in silence. They studied in silence. 

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. 

It was a dangerous break in routine when John and Natalie got back to the house to find their guardian, Miss Garcia, waiting for them. Natalie watched John grip his backpack straps tighter and knew what he was thinking. Escape plans, emergency cash store, and weapons caches besides what he had on his person. His white knuckles made Natalie wonder if maybe this time he’d make a break for it this time. 

_ Runner _ , she thought. 

But he didn’t. It was a shock really. Natalie was waiting for the day that he’d leave her behind.

When Miss Garcia beckoned them inside, John followed Natalie’s lead. Natalie was sure maybe their knives had been discovered from under the floorboards, or maybe Miss Garcia had figured out it was John who’d been stealing from the other kids. There was a lot of things she could’ve found out but the way she was smiling just then - blindingly, hopefully, like John and Natalie were gifts instead of court ordered delinquents - made Natalie even more uneasy than if they were in trouble. 

Smiles were dangerous. 

Natalie wished things became more clear when they were lead into Miss Garcia’s “office” and told to wait. John lifted his hand and made their quick gesture for ‘danger’ followed by ‘escape.’ Natalie shook her head reluctantly. There would be time for that later. First, figure out if this threat was worth running from…

The threat, as it turned out to be, was a put together middle aged woman with sharp green eyes and a pantsuit with a simple golden cross adorning her neck. 

“John, Natalie,” Miss Garcia said happily, “this is Stephanie Walker.”

\--

Miss Garcia said ‘Stephanie Walker’ the same way she might say ‘Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.’ It made Natalie’s skin crawl. Everything about this made her skin crawl. She darted her eyes quickly in John’s direction and saw him eyeing the blocked exit, saw him shutting down.

Natalie wasn’t far behind him, feeling her own urge to run and never stop at Miss Garcia’s next words. 

“She’s here about adopting you once your stay here is up.” 

John stiffened next to Natalie, and she felt her own posture go tense. Natalie’s poker face was what had won them most of their emergency money. It was what had allowed them to run from Michael in the first place. Her face was a uncrackable mask of uncaring but she knew John was reading her ticks. They hadn’t grown that far apart. He knew there was fear racing under her skin, surprise in the simple barely-there twitch of her eyebrows, and the nerves that jumped from fingertip to fingertip as she felt like reaching for a knife. 

“Adopting. Us.” Natalie said in a simple deadpan, disbelief coloring every word.

“It might be best if you let me explain, Zoey,” Stephanie said to Miss Garcia. Her voice was polite, tightly clipped and controlled. She turned to the two delinquents with what Natalie assumed was supposed to be a gentle smile. It felt like a threat. 

“Miss Garcia and I have been friends for a very long time and she’s told me a lot about you. She says you’re good kids who got stuck in a bad situation and I believe her.” Natalie thought about the blood under John’s fingers, those weeks ago, and wanted to laugh. “Once your stay here is up, you’re supposed to go into the foster system. I’d like to help you avoid that.”

Natalie wasn’t listening as soon as the words  _ foster care  _ crossed the woman’s lips. Natalie felt her finger twitch in the direction of her backpack, but her knives wouldn’t do anything to stop that threat. But that didn’t mean that she - that  _ they _ \- needed this woman either. 

“Not interested,” Natalie snapped. “We're just fine on our own. We hardly need to be someone's fucking charity case.” 

“Natalie,” Miss Garcia scolded but Stephanie Walker just smiled, a careful and serene thing that set her on edge. 

“What? She comes in here with a smile and says ‘I’ll adopt you and fix all your problems’ with her nice little cross and bible book and we’re supposed to believe her? Really? We’re thieves, killers, we joined a gang and just because we took an out doesn’t mean we’re gonna be your perfect little saints. We’re not going to be anything but trouble makers not worth two shits for the rest of our lives and you and I both know it.”   
They weren’t ready for this. They didn’t have a plan. Not yet...  But they had preparations. They had... they had... they had nothing but each other. That wouldn’t - that couldn’t - be enough.

Natalie risked a desperate look over at John. There was smoke in his eyes. Natalie had never felt so alone.   
  
Her fingers twitches towards him in a desperate attempt at comfort, seeking reassurance that they were still in this together. John moved his hand closer in silent permission for her touch. Natalie’s taps ghosted over the back of his hand and had never felt so glad for the contact. 

John was still here. Everything could still be fine.  

“Natalie!” Miss Garcia said, louder this time. Their guardian turned back to Stephanie with apologies falling from her lips. “They’re good kids, Steph, really, I promise. I don’t know why she’s being like this.”

“She’s being like this because she’s not stupid,” Natalie said. The look Miss Garcia sent her said she was being anything but helpful. 

“I think we’re done here,” Natalie said, and nodded at John to  _ go _ . 

He was gone before he heard Stephanie say, “I don’t think we are.” 

Natalie and John had each other, but in every world that would never be enough. Tentative trust and allies were not enough. Maybe for survival, but not for anything else. Natalie thought about the blood under John’s nails, about how he smiled like his skin was too tight, about how he wasn’t talking to her. 

Natalie could leave. Stephanie Walker wasn’t in the way of the door. But, she thought, it wasn’t  _ enough _ .

She stayed.

\--

Natalie found him behind the shed in the backyard, after it was all over. After Stephanie was gone and Natalie had words, had promises, had a chance, racing through her head. Natalie didn’t want to be this for the rest of her life. She didn’t want to be gang trash, always feeling afraid, always feeling scared. 

She didn’t want that for John either. 

“You can’t be considering this,” John signed as soon as Natalie entered into his line of sight. Natalie didn’t need to hear his voice to know the sheer disbelief that his stare conveyed. 

“It’s a chance,” Natalie said, and her voice shook. A beat of silence. A deep breath. “The Hounds are still looking for revenge and I don’t know what shit you’ve gotten into a school- John!” She moved to grab his shoulder but pulled back just in time. In the flash of a second there was a knife in his hands and a snarl etched across his face. 

“I’m not scared of them!” he signed. He was trying to make Natalie believe him. He was trying to be brave, trying to be invincible. His eyes told a different story, though. John’s blue eyes that stared so often with deadly intent were scared. More accurately: John was fucking terrified. Natalie could see the cogs working in his mind, the litany of  _ I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.  _

Natalie sighed and waited for John to sheath the knife. But he didn’t make a single move and Natalie wasn’t going to stand there for forever. 

“You might not be scared of them,” Natalie said, “but I am. And John, something’s up, something happened, and something’s going bad. You can be better than this. I can be better than this. We can. We can do this, John. We can do more than just fucking survive- stop it, fucking stop it!”

Natalie had been expecting the attack and dodged his lunge easily. She didn't bother pulling her own weapon as she struck back. She knocked the knife from his grip with a twist of his arm and snatched it up from the asphalt. She retreated back, once the weapon was in hand, and tried to will the fight to stop almost as soon as it began.    
  
She could see John fighting the urge to keep fighting, to not give it up just quite yet. Natalie could see his bloodlust and that damnable smile. Natalie didn’t let it shake her. She sat down on the crumbling steps, her black hair falling into her face from where it was escaping her loose braid. She kept the knife on her far side.    
  
"John," she said softly. It wasn't pleading. Neither of them did that. But it felt damn close.    
  
He sat down next to her and Natalie could see him fighting the panic that was threatening to drag him under. He was always on the edge, these days, waiting to fall. His white knuckles gripped the steps hard and tried to listen to Natalie talk even if she knew that he didn't want to hear what she had to say.   
  
"I know you'd gut them. You don't need my protection, and you certainly don't need it from Miss Charity Case. But that sends you to jail and I can't watch your back there. No one would. So yes, I'm considering it. And you should too."   
  
John’s blue eyes snapped up to meet her eyes. The shock painted there was clear. Obviously, Natalie wasn’t the only one here was abandonment issues.    
  
"John," Natalie snapped. "Listen to me. I don't leave without you. Do you understand? I don't leave without you." She found his gaze and refused to let it drop. It was almost painful to watch the ice in John’s blue eyes thaw and turn into confusion. 

“I don’t leave without you,” Natalie said again. Natalie knew John, she knew him inside and out. She knew that he preferred guns to knives. She knew his hands and the way they shook. She knew his scars. She knew John and she knew that he was alone. 

John was a boy who was left, and left, and left again. You don’t end up where they are now - keeping their backs to the wall and waking up screaming, trusting your back to no one but yourself - if you haven’t been left in one way or another. 

Natalie refused to be another person who left John. She would not dig his grave and leave him to lie in it. She wouldn’t leave him, period. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, John nodded. Natalie nodded back and finally offered up the knife she had been holding hostage. 

_ Together? _ he tapped out. John looked at her, and looked at her, and Natalie felt like he was trusting her more than he ever had before.

“Together,” Natalie said, because that was one promise she wasn’t afraid of saying out loud.


	12. want from me and need from me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've made it to the end! Thank you so much for reading my fic and I adore all your comments and kudos. Follow me on wylcnvcnsunshine on tumblr and always feel free to come talk to me about the Foxes or this au! If anyone's interested in a part two, please let me know!
> 
> Love you all and I cannot say thank you enough for coming on this journey with me!
> 
> Title from Lighthouse by Mallor Knox

John’s hands were not shaking. They weren’t shaking at all. If he held the pen tightly in his grip as he stared at the papers in front of him, it was fine. This was all a fever dream anyways. This wasn’t real, this couldn’t be. 

_ Neil Abram Walker. _

A real name. A name that came with a social security number and an official ID and one that wasn’t printed in the back room was a failing business front by a man with wandering eyes. This was legit. This was a government sanctioned rehabilitation, turning a gang banger into a good citizen. 

Clean record, clean ID, clean start. 

_ Neil Abram Walker. _

Natalie stood next to him, but the name on the papers in front of her wasn’t Natalie.  _ Renee _ . Rebirth. The start of something new. 

Neil didn’t think that deep about his name. He just opened the phonebook and let that decide his fate. Old traditions died hard, and this was how  ~~Nathaniel Alex Stephan Chris John~~ Neil and his mother had chosen their new names, their new lives. So now he was Neil. It was almost too close to Nathaniel for comfort but something about it felt right. Like Neil was exactly who he needed to be.

Except that was bullshit. Neil felt like just another skin that itched and itched until he wanted to tear it off. It felt like a trap, like a cage, like every consequence his mother had ever warned him about. 

His mother would kill him, if she could see this. His father might find him, if he did this.  ~~Nathaniel Alex Stephan Chris John~~ Neil might live, if he did this.

Neil signed the dotted line and let John slip from existence, like dropping an old coat and letting it hit the dusty ground. It was Neil’s turn to run the show now. 


End file.
